Public Indiscretions
by JLo10131121
Summary: What if that dressing room scene in There Are No Missions had gone just a tad differently?


Title: Public Indiscretions

Author: Jennifer Lopez

Rating: Definitely NC-17. For the last time, children, go away. Don't blame me for corrupting what few morals you have left.

Summary: What if that dressing room scene in There Are No Missions had gone just a **tad** differently?

Spoilers: There Are No Missions

A/N: Inspired by the wonderful banner that onesweetmemory made me of M&N in TANM when Michael visited Nikita in that dressing room. **So hot.** This scene was written in such a way that it could have happened within the context of that scene. So you have a choice: you can take mine and pretend it did happen, or be satisfied with what the powers that be gave us. You decide. :P ENJOY!

"…Michael." Nikita was expecting the dressing room attendant, not to run into her old lover. And new nemesis.

"How much do they know?" Michael asked softly, getting right to the point.

"Not much. But they're looking for you."

Michael turned his head slightly, searching, always on guard. "Is someone watching you?"

"No. But they knew you'd make contact," Nikita said, snaking her arms sinuously around Michael's shoulders.

"And when I did?" Michael queried, unable to resist placing his gloved hands at Nikita's waist. A twofold purpose: 1. To prevent her from reaching that gun she had in her bag at his back and 2. He couldn't resist touching her. Even if she wasn't herself.

"They want you dead," she said and he could feel her trying to reach that gun.

Gently, he pushed her back. "I know." Footsteps.

"How does that size six look on you?" a female voice questioned from outside, drawing Michael's attention to just beyond the white curtain.

"Much better, thanks," Nikita replied, a touch of impatience in her tone. She wanted to take care of her problem, not get interrupted by nosy service representatives. Michael started to turn back to Nikita and she took advantage of the situation, pressing her lips to his, feeling his yield under the pressure and start to respond.

"I've been worried about you. Where are you hiding?" she asked, kissing his lips, feeling that soft surface part. An involuntary shiver imperceptibly shook her frame at the wet feel of Michael's tongue against the seam of her lips, dipping inside before retreating.

"It's better if you don't know," Michael said, his hands caressing Nikita's sides, thumbs rubbing unconsciously against the silky skin. A thin layer of leather was all that separated his fingertips from the lush feel of her body.

"I can…help," Nikita said slowly, Michael's hands rubbing slow circles against the sensitive sides of her stomach distracting her slightly. She suppressed a shiver. Since when did she react to him? Madeline said the treatments erased all emotion. And now this? She attempted to reach for her gun again. He deflected, stepping into her personal space even further and pushing her back against the cold wall.

"No. It's safer. For both of us," he emphasized, kissing her lips again, dipping his tongue into the warm well of her mouth, briefly stroking hers before retreating. Again.

"Michael…" she moaned, starting to feel something more in spite of her conditioning, chasing his mouth and slipping her tongue between his lips, getting aggressive in her frustration. On two accounts. She could no longer reach her gun, which was obviously his intention. And because she found her body reacting to his. For over four months now, she'd felt nothing. Not love. Not fear. Not anger. Not hate. Nothing. She had these memories of Walter, Birkoff, of Michael and though her memories told her she should love him, should crave him, should want him, there was a disconnect. A switch flickering without the wires connecting. And now…now for some reason, his touch was causing her body to respond, to crave. For him, for what her memories told her he could bring her to. They said that this man knew her body intimately, had brought her to screaming orgasm many, many delirious times in the past.

She suppressed a shiver at the lascivious thought.

"I want you," she moaned involuntary. Where the fuck had _that _come from? A rush of wetness flooded her body and traveled low, heat pooling in her belly and thighs. She could sense his eyes searching hers, gauging the truth.

"You don't," he denied.

"Yes, I do, Michael. We know how this is going to eventually end, but it doesn't have to right now. I want this. Now," she stated forcefully. She didn't give a damn that they were in a dressing room, a flimsy curtain all that separated them from the rest of the world, from a very public and populated room. She pulled up his sunglasses, meeting his gaze with her direct one.

Michael searched her eyes, seeing for the first time something else warring with the ice present in their depths, a fire that burned and melted that coldness. Unbidden, his body began to respond. He had not had his lover for over four months, and although the woman in front of him only resembled Nikita, his traitorous body didn't care. It smelled her, that soft vanilla and amber scent. It felt her, the satin of her skin beneath his gloved fingers, the warmth of her pressed close to his body. "You don't know how to be quiet."

Another traitorous liquid slide of heat snaked down inside, pooling in the buttery soft satin panties, making Nikita intensely aware of the heated arousal taking over. Memories told her he was right; she had been a screamer. Memories told her that this man knew how to make her body feel such incredible pleasure. He knew how to touch her. And he did have a large cock. Even if she could no longer feel love, she did feel desire. And lust was an itch like any other. Sometimes, it needed to be scratched.

"I can now," she murmured silkily against his lips, her hands already starting to push his jacket off his shoulders. Michael allowed it. Removed his sunglasses and placed them in the pocket before the jacket dropped to the floor.

"No," he said, changing his mind. This wasn't his woman. Anger flared. He was pissed that she would use their time together in such a way, debasing what they'd shared.

"I'm aching, Michael. We don't have to fight right now. Why don't we call it a truce? I won't reach for my gun and you…take care of our 'mutual' problem?" Nikita emphasized by brushing her pelvis against his, feeling and stroking his erection, which had tented his pants.

Michael pressed his pelvis into hers, taking another step forward and pinning her against the wall. Looking into her eyes, he methodically removed his gloves, discarding them on the adjacent bench, before returning his bare hands to the sides of her body, stroking just under her breasts. He had to restrain his more violent impulses. Nikita wasn't here with him; she was buried deep inside this woman inhabiting her body. But that didn't stop his body from reacting to hers. And that pissed him off more than anything. That he didn't have control over it. And she…although she wasn't his lover, she looked like her. She talked and moved and… desired like Nikita.

That much he _knew_ she wasn't faking. She couldn't hide the press of her nipples against his chest, burning through the thin black shirt to his skin. She couldn't hide the scent of her desire rising from between her thighs that he could smell, an intoxicating aroma that teased his nose and made his mouth water for the taste of her. _Damn her. _

"We'll do this…my way," he murmured, a touch of violence in his tone. "You _will_ do as I say. You will not scream. You will not pull away, no matter what I do," he ordered, dark thoughts of possessing her consuming his being.

Nikita's body melted at the dark heated tone, his forceful hunger. But she remained upright. No need to reveal to him the depths of the hunger she had to fuck him. Unbidden, her hands rose to his black shirt, pushed it up his body, baring hard muscle at his stomach before smoothing the fabric up, revealing that muscled chest and amazingly enough, Michael helped her, raising his arms just enough so she could get the fabric over his head. Nikita discarded it on the floor before smoothing her hands across his chest, tweaking his nipples, already hard with desire.

Michael pushed her hands away after a few moments, unable to handle her hands on him for long. Though she wasn't his lover, though his body didn't care, Michael did. He couldn't bear for her to touch him as if she cared, as if he _mattered. _He clenched his jaw briefly. Capturing her hands, he removed them from his chest and to her sides, holding them there briefly, silently telling her to hold still. He looked down, his eyes caressing creamy curves, her breasts encased in a demi-cup black bra, her nipples hard points against the middle. He thumbed each briefly and heard her suppress a gasp. His gaze drew up in time to watch her close her eyes and bite her lip.

Michael reached around her and unclipped her bra, watched as gravity took over, and the slick fabric released its hold on her flesh and slid down her arms to pool at her feet. He cupped a breast, kneaded the tender flesh, heavy with desire, blood pooling in its curves, stroked a pink nipple, hardening it beyond bearing, if the half-pleading sound issuing from her lips was any indication. Michael shot a warning glance her way before continuing his ministrations, pulling and twisting the dark pink tip before stroking it lightly. Alternating hard, deep pulls and touches with feather-light strokes, never allowing her to go over.

The son of a bitch _knew_ what he was doing. Memories told her he'd once done this to her, stroked her breasts, tortured her needy nipples, hurt them so good she'd come screaming his name, and he had never so much as brushed her clit with a warm stream of air. Dammit, she needed to come _now. _Her body was one big throb and she'd not felt like this for a long, long time. No sensation had pierced the emotionless cocoon of her mind until now and she didn't like it. She'd wanted to get this done and over with, get the ache appeased so she could concentrate on her purpose: to cancel Michael. She had her orders, but this craving had sunk sharp claws into her and now she could think of nothing else.

Nikita wasn't sure she could take this anymore. Maybe this was one itch that couldn't be scratched. Shouldn't. A nagging feeling that it was one that would _never _be satisfied. Just when she was about to tell (_beg)_ him to stop, he switched breasts and gave the other one the same treatment. Nikita had to bury her face against his neck, mouth open and sucking at the pounding pulse, to stop herself from screaming. In frustration. In needy hunger.

Long minutes later had her coming out of a daze to the sensation of Michael pulling her leather skirt up, higher, past her thighs, above her pussy, letting it bunch at her waist. Just high enough to _reach._ His left hand slid down her flat belly, between her skin and the satin of her black panties to the saturated curls below. He stroked gently there for a moment, letting her feel him, get used to his touch again. Memories told her, fucking _reminded_ her, that it'd been months since he'd taken her, since she'd felt that thick cock sliding inside. She couldn't repress a small moan and Michael gripped her hip in warning.

Michael traveled the remainder of the way to that wet heat that beckoned him. Felt the slickness of her response, the swollen nub of her clit pulsing in time to his strokes, hungry for touch. A vicious hunger gripped him low in his gut. Christ, he wanted to taste that juice weeping from her body, tongue her hot entrance, dip inside, stroke those aching walls…

No. She wasn't his lover; this was to relieve an itch. A fuck, basic and animalistic in its hunger and urgency. He'd save that particular craving for after he got her back. He shuddered. When he got her back…_nothing would stop him. _He'd do everything he'd ever imagined, every basic act he'd ever thought, once he had her back. His cock jerked at the thought.

Nikita moaned slightly against his neck, sucking blindly and he was jerked out of his erotic thoughts by the small sound. "Quiet," he ordered, and he felt her body spasm, his fingers feeling that pulse intimately from their delicate position. His middle finger stroked teasingly across her clit once, twice, thrice and felt her convulse slightly, so close to that edge. But he wasn't feeling merciful. She didn't deserve it and he wanted to make her wait. Desire. Ache. Go fucking insane with hunger, the kind of insanity that had knifed at his balls these last several months having her so close and yet so far. He pushed his finger inside, feeling those delicate tissues grip his finger, withdrew, introduced a second, a third and soon, he was thrusting them deeply up to the third knuckle, stretching long unused muscles. A visceral satisfaction gripped him; he was proud and darkly satisfied that she'd not had sex with anyone these months apart. He didn't know what he'd done if she had. Nikita was _his_ and no one else's. All of her. All versions of her. She belonged to _him_.

His charged thoughts were once again interrupted by the warning twitches her body was giving and he swiftly withdrew his fingers. No. She wouldn't get off that easy. She would only come when _he _said so, when _he _made her. Not when she wanted to. She had to learn that. _Michael _controlled this body, not her. A broken sound issued from her mouth and Nikita pulled her head back from his neck, a question and a demand in her dazed eyes.

"I decide when you come," he said silkily, "not you." He stepped back slightly, holding her gaze as he unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned the clasp.

The sound of that zipper sliding down was the loudest rasp ever to Nikita's sensitive ears, her eyes drawn to the sight of Michael's cock releasing from its fabric prison, hard and demanding, ruddy from the blood rushing to its length, a bead of precum dotting its head. A rush of saliva coated her mouth so quickly Nikita had to swallow, hungry, near desperate to taste that little drop. She'd not felt like this for months and months, longing gripping her viciously, clenching her internal muscles, making her salivate at the sight of his cock. Memories told her he'd taste _good, _so fucking good. He'd be smooth in her mouth, silky softness over a column of hard and heat, a juxtaposition that would tickle her tongue and inflame her senses. A _little _taste wouldn't hurt… With that in mind, Nikita moved to kneel, to take him into her mouth, hungry, so hungry for the taste of him.

"No." The denial invited no debate. Michael was adamant. This was a fuck, not an exchange between him and the woman he loved. She didn't deserve it. He was punishing her, he knew. Although Nikita was buried deep inside, he knew this woman would feel some of the same things. And to Nikita, sucking him off had been one of her favorite things. She loved to go down on him, watch his desire blossom, deepen, sharpen until talons of need gripped him as she sucked on his length, teasing his tip, kneading the hot balls beneath his shaft until he could take no more. She loved watching him lose his cool. It was one of the few times she was able to do it. She adored knowing she could make him lose his mind.

A sound of displeasure issued from her throat unbidden and Nikita felt a foreign sense of disappointment and loss inside. She'd really, really wanted to take him in her mouth. That thought was quickly forgotten as Michael shuffled them against the opposite wall, next to her purse-and her gun-and turned her around, making her face the wall. Her head turned, eyes alighting on the purse and that gun inside. Michael drew her hands up to rest on the wall above her head, pinned them there with his left hand. With his right, she could feel him guide himself to her wet, sopping wet entrance. Nikita bent back slightly, tilted her hips to receive him. With a slight push, Michael stroked inside slowly, deeply, not stopping until he was balls deep. And then began to move.

That son of a bitch. He'd done it on purpose. He could have taken her against the wall they'd been against before, but he'd moved them to the opposite wall, right next to her purse. He knew that her gun was in there, and he was taunting her with that knowledge. That her hands were manacled against the wall with his iron grip, no way to slip them free…even if she wanted to. Which, right now, she didn't, she thought. And that was the last coherent thought she had.

Because Michael proceeded to fuck her out of her mind.

Michael stroked slowly inside, alternating with short and deep strokes, at first. Then, once he gauged she was getting hungrier, needier, he changed to short, hard teasing thrusts, rasping against her internal muscles, but never directly stroking over her G-spot or allowing his balls to slap against her clit. Only glancing over the tissues. And thereby driving Nikita slowly out of her fucking mind.

She rotated her hips against his, trying to increase the friction, wanting the rasp against her clit, to sensitize her channel, hungry for the orgasm that memories said would be worth this torture. "Mi-Michael" she whispered almost soundlessly, hating the plea in her voice, but unable to help it. The son of a bitch knew how to play her like an instrument, and he was in the middle of a fucking symphony.

"Not yet," he murmured, and rotated his hips, stretching her body, forcing her to feel every inch of him inside her, before deepening his strokes, but slowing his pace.

A sob wanted to force its way through, but Nikita viciously held it back. The bastard had answered part of her desire, but denied her the fast strokes that would send her hurtling over the edge. Christ, she could feel the lightly coarse fabric of his slacks against the inside of her thighs and back of the lower curves of her ass, and for some reason, the fact that he'd not fully undressed, that she was also partially dressed, lit her up and the burn grew out of control.

Michael's right hand gripped her hip briefly before drifting up her tense stomach to caress and plump each breast, tweak each nipple, before stroking each lightly, sensitizing them beyond bearing. He redoubled his efforts, concentrating on denying her; the problem with that was that it also denied him, and Michael was fast nearing the point of no return. He'd not made love to Nikita for over four months now, and his body knew it. It hungered to come inside, to mark his lover with his seed. A primal part of him wanted to mark her in that way, not as an act of love, but as an act of _possession. _With that thought, his tightly leashed control escaped him.

_Ah, fuck. _Nikita couldn't think much beyond expletives. Michael had taken away all of her sense, all thoughts. Her mind was mush and she didn't care. Because he was fucking the shit out of her. She felt him pick up his pace, _fi-na-fucking-ly,_ and his balls, those wonderful amazingly gorgeous balls were slapping now roughly against her clit, abrading the skin there, causing streaks of lightning to echo from her clit throughout her body. Michael rotated his hips and surged upward, pounding her, slamming into her, and the orgasm rolled through her body suddenly, deeply, gripping her in such incredible ecstasy it was all she could do to _not _scream. As it was, Michael fiercely gripped her head, turning her to capture her lips in a biting kiss to smother the cry that was ripped from her vocal cords, released by the aching pleasure that coursed through her body.

Michael shook with his own orgasm, the spasms of his body emptying his balls, their issue thickly coating the silky tissues that continued to grip and release him delicately as Nikita came and after long minutes, she began to come down from the delicious high he'd given her. Unconsciously, he stroked her neck and when she bent it forward, exposing the vulnerable nape from the soft strands of her blond hair, Michael couldn't resist placing delicate kisses along that bit of flesh, stroking gently with his tongue, and nipping a bit, reddening and marring the unblemished skin. He couldn't resist circling that tender flesh with the tip of his tongue, an action he'd repeated many times previously on that part of her, as well as another even more deeply sensitive nub of flesh.

Nikita's hips pressed sharply into his one last time as that insidious tongue made its tight circle against her neck, somehow directly felt in her clit, which pulsed in renewed hunger for touch, for the slick feel of his lush tongue, for another orgasm that his lips promised. "No," she whispered, convinced she couldn't do this again, no matter what her body said.

Michael moved back, separating their bodies, and she was left aching and empty. Though satisfied, she wasn't satiated. Nikita had a feeling she never would be. She heard the rustle of clothes, hers and his and saw his hand as he held up her bra. She swiftly put it on, like a bit of armor against him, drew her panties up and skirt down, feeling gravity take over and the slow slide of Michael's seed dampen her thighs. She suppressed the shiver of renewed hunger and rightness the thought produced, hardening her mind and heart against such thoughts. Michael was the enemy. Speaking of….

She turned around. "Thanks."

Michael pocketed his gloves, finished buckling his belt, shirt already covering the hard chest she'd felt at her back. She shuttered her thoughts away from that. It was done. Over.

"I need you to get me something."

"Anything," she promised.

"A formatted capture card."

"Where do I bring it to you?"

"We can't meet again; it's too risky." Nikita leaned in to kiss him, reaching for the gun behind his back. Again he kept her at bay, just barely out of reach. Of him. Of the gun. "Use the old data dump. I'll be in touch. I have to go."

She nodded and watched him go. A second later, she'd grabbed her bag and jacket and exited swiftly, trying to find out where he'd gone.

Michael appeared from behind another white curtain, adjacent to the fitting room where they'd had sex. He watched her search for him and a part of his heart ached. He turned to head to the exit and was met by the blushing face of the fitting room attendant who'd probably serviced Nikita earlier. Her eyes were large in her expressive face. Shock and a bite of desire had frozen her vocal cords. Michael, on the other hand, had no such problem.

"Thank you…for your discretion. My lover and I….we just couldn't wait. You understand," he said, before sauntering out of the building.

Celeste Montier pulled her jaw from off the floor to watch in amazement as the gorgeous man in black left the store. She'd _heard_ the two of them. She'd never had anything like that happen in all the years she'd been working retail. And she'd seen some pretty crazy stuff. Even so…he and his lover, that beautiful blond woman, whoever they were, were more than welcome to engage in another public indiscretion. Any time. She shivered with the desire the two of them together had unwittingly coaxed out of her. Yeah, those two could have sex wherever they wanted. She just hoped she was working when they came back.

_Fin_


End file.
